This Heavenly Light
by thisisforyou
Summary: OTHELLO: I remember when we were in love, my darling, many moons ago. Iago/Emilia.


**A/N: I am totally aware of my general incapacity to equal the great works of Shakespeare. I just had to give it a try. I'm not really sure where this comes in, either, because I was thinking it would be before the play, but then I realised I quote Act 4 scene 3 in it... Review please!**

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The chamber was cold and empty, a perfect reflection, it seemed, of herself as she stood in the hallway and steeled herself to impose her warmth upon it. Once, it was filled with life and energy and passion; those vibrant luxuries had vanished the day she began to sleep alone.

_Iago._

The name threatened to slip through Emilia's lips as tears through an eye, but she pressed them together and kept them tight shut. There were things, she had discovered, that lived best inside the mind. Passions that, if expressed, led to unwanted consequences: her thoughts turned again to nights spent under cover of darkness, her chest heavy and struggling under the weight of a faceless man. Passion and desire. Ever-present, impossible to quell, fleeting to quench. Emilia knew all about those, great pleasures turned sour and mocking.

_Dost thou in conscience think that there be women do abuse their husbands in such gross kind?_

She had laughed then, and it had indeed seemed laughable, poor, sweet Desdemona, innocent in the cruel ways of men. Her love reminded Emilia of what her own had once been: untamable, sinful in the pure strength of their desire.

She shrugged her cold thoughts and stepped lightly into her bedchamber, closing the door behind her. The stone floor was harsh but almost comfortable on her feet as she removed her shoes. A sigh briefly escaped her as she sat on her bed, carefully placed the door t her back, and begun to unlace her bodice.

It seemed unjust, too, that women shaped and pinned themselves into man's idea of perfection until they could barely move. Her breath quickened as the garment loosened, her bosom heaving from release.

She barely heard the door open behind her; when she did, she did not turn. "Do you need something?" she asked calmly, unsure to whom she was speaking, unwilling to find out.

"Ay." The voice was the one she both hoped and feared to hear. Tears threatened her voice and prickled her eyes.

"Pray how can I help, my lord?"

Iago took a step inside and shut the door behind him. He placed his candle beside hers on the dresser. "Will you not look at me, Emilia?"

She was lost in seas of anger and helpless forgiveness, being tumbled and buffeted this way and that. She didn't want to look at him; she wanted to see his face more than all the whole world. For some reason, Emilia felt it necessary to retighten her bodice strings before she turned to face her husband. His face was sad, his sapphire eyes piercing and sharp, the proud curve of his lips turned down at the corners s her surveyed her.

They stood there, acutely aware of time rushing like wind past their ears, until time itself faltered and seemed to stop. Emilia's tears burned her eyes at the sight of his solemn face brimming with sorrow.

"You have sinned against me, my love," he whispered. One solitary tear fell unchecked from her eye; she turned her head away.

"I turned elsewhere to find what I no longer found with you."

"Oh, Emilia!" Iago took up the candle again and stepped closer; she shrank from his advance and he stopped. His voice, when he began again, was softer, devoid of anger. "We had the world in our hands, Emilia," he told her, his words full of sorrow. "I know not whence we lost it."

"Nor know'st I," Emilia said, in barely more than a whisper. "My love for thee was past compare."

"As was mine."

Another tear broke the desperate embrace of her eye and stained the dark fabric of her dress. "'Twas when my lady's Othello rose above thee that thou changed, my lord," she observed. "Soon your very passions and desires were tainted with his name."

A shadow crossed Iago's angular face, darkening his deep blue eyes. "An affliction overcome long ago, dearest."

"Then why did you not return to me? I would have waited for you forever."

Iago's large, sword-worn hand balled into a fist and slammed hard into the dresser. Emilia flinched. "Thou liest!" he yelled, fire spitting angrily from his eyes. "The men you couched with in my absence speak against you."

Emilia, anger flaring in her own breast, stood up quickly. "Tell me in earnest that you have been truer to me than I to thee," she challenged. His eyes flickered, but he said nothing. "Tell me!"

"I cannot – but my falseties were spurred by your own! It is my lord – the Moor –"

"Nay, Iago," Emilia said quietly. "Our faults are our own."

He strode towards her, his kid boots making no noise on the stone floor, and placed his candle on the cabinet beside her bed. He was so close Emilia could reach out and embrace him as though nothing was wrong. She fought back a sob. "I love you, Emilia," he whispered, taking her in his arms and pressing her head to his chest. "I forgive your sins readily, if you will forgive mine own."

Her arms, seemingly of their own accord, wrapped around his strong frame. "Oh, my love," she said, her tears flowing freely now, closing her eyes against the warmth of his crisp shirt. His name struck up a frantic drumbeat in her head. His hand reached up and loosened her bodice-strings once more; she lifted her head to receive his lips as they touched hers like they had not for so long.

As he lowered her body onto the bed, Emilia caught a glance of the candle burning passionately beside her, seeming like the light of heaven itself, cleansing, forgiving, lending new life to the lovers like the chasm between them never was.

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**A/N: It is unbelievably frustrating, trying to write dialogue in Shakespearean. Absolutely impossible to make it sound good when mixed with modern language. Oh well. Review and I'll email you a picture of a cake. Or a cookie. indicate your preference...**

**-for you!**


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